THE GREAT 2025 MOTOPG PODCAST RAMPAGAPLOOZA ASTRIDE BMW’S FINEST TOURERS

For me, there were only two ways of looking at this…

 

The ride would be an frothingly splendid bunch of days belting around almost every worthwhile road in south-east Australia, on a BMW GS 1300 Pure (objectively the best motorcycle on earth), enriched by superb company…or it would be a wretched exercise in herding road-crazed shit-lizards, attending upon their injuries, organising utes to haul away the wreckage of their bikes, and explaining to the Highway Patrol the reason that bike is in a tree had nothing to do with speed.

I decided to look upon it as the former. Positivity is something I am working eagerly on at this stage of my life.

And in real terms, it was only ever going to be what it was going to be. It could be nothing else. There is only so much control one has when one squires 40 motorcyclists around some truly epic roads. They will all wanna dance. But some will waltz and some will boogaloo.

 

 

 

I was ever so good in terms of bike for the trip. I had a BMW GS 1300 Pure. BMW gave it to me pure. I gave it back de-flowered. I’m not even sorry. It can waltz superbly and boogaloo on the edge of insanity. It’s the best bike in the world. We all know that. It does everything you’d ever want. It is utterly perfect for Australian roads. Hell, it’s utterly perfect for all roads everywhere. There’s not a bike I have ridden that has the same seemingly impossible road-going integrity the GS offers. It’s not even an argument.

 

Tug had an R 1300 RT. This is a GS rigged for grand touring. Same brilliant engine. Same latest-gen Telelever front-end. But with many more electronic options, hard-luggage, and an automated shift assist. It has no clutch lever. You stick in M (Manual) mode and use the gear-lever normally. It feels like a quickshifter. Or put it in A (Automatic), and the bike changes gears for you. Yes, I know. But this “heresy” suits some bikes better than others. And it suits the RT perfectly. Do not knock it until you’ve tried it.

Freido scored the brilliant R 1300 RS. All painted up like a stripper on her first night, and easily one of the most amazing bikes you’ll ever ride. Freido normally rides a BMW F800. He commutes daily on it. He doesn’t do any long-distance touring. And he is quite economically-sized. He was quite concerned the RS would be too big for him. We called him names and laughed at him. And he was proved wrong 15-minutes into the trip. He remains amazed at how perfectly easy and silly-fast his whole ride was.

Both their opinions are at the end of this article.

I’ve used the word “perfect” a few times when referring to the three bikes BMW loaned us for the trip. It’s because for the way I ride, and what I want and need a bike to do, all three are precisely that. But for my money, the GS is rather more perfect than the other two. Hopefully, you will understand why I feel like this as you read on…

We kicked off from the Pheasant’s Nest. This is the vast fuel-and-sugar dealer on the Hume Freeway just south of Campbelltown. It was once a wonderfully atmospheric truck-stop where semi-driving meth-freaks sweet-talked hookers into their cabins, ate rancid fried food, and sometimes used the showers to hose the mank off their groins and armpits. It was also where motorcycle lunatics like me prepared for fast night-runs to Melbourne by chain-smoking and sipping scalding coffee.

Pheasants Nest is very different now. You can let your wife out of the car without fear of her being hauled into a parked Kenworth, tossed a glow-in-the-dark servo condom, and told to put it on with her mouth.

It was a great turn-out for the Rampage. I stopped counting Rampagers after 30. There was more of them, but they wandered about and were hard to count. Tug was calling out their names and marking them off. This was Tug’s tour, and that was one of his jobs. He is great at this stuff.

 

I only had two jobs. Make sure Robbie Phillis showed up on Sunday night and ride herd at the back of the pack. My dance card was thus emotionally filled to the brim.

 

Freido’s jobs were even simpler. Do not fall off. If you fall off do not damage the BMW. Put yourself between it and the road. Nothing else matters.

 

Most of the Rampagers were repeat offenders. A few were new. Bikes ranged from old Harleys to racetrack weaponry with tyres furred from a recent track-day. The weather was clear, the distance reasonable, the route as winding as Tug could come up with.

Corner-marking was explained. It would not always be needed, but when it was, it needed to be complied with. They were to sit on the indicated-by-Tugs turn until they saw my Tail-End Charlie Hawaiian shirt appear. I cannot wear a fluoro vest. I will catch fire. Beatings were promised if compliance failures occurred. Not one such failure happened for the next three days. Note to companies who run bike tours: Tell the customers you’ll hit them in the face with a tree-limb if they fail to corner-mark properly. Make sure the customers believe you. This is crucial. Everyone on the tour will support you in this.

Riding at the back has its special pleasures. You need to go a bit quicker? Just let them all get ahead of you. Have a bit of a squirt. If there are any cops ahead, they will be stopping the people in front of you. True, if a cop comes up behind you and grabs you, then you’re on your own. But then you’re always on your own with cops anyway. Also, there is no judgement upon your riding, since no-one is watching you from behind. Lotsa positives.

We left the servo, and very shortly turned left to make our way to the coast via Kangaroo Valley, and three days of some of the best riding this country has to offer. So rather than bore you and myself with a mile-by-mile description of who did what and when, permit me to give you the highlights that will stay with me until the end of time. It was the kind of run that makes me giggle and sigh internally each time I think of it…

Oh, and if you were on the Rampage, I have given you all nicknames so you all have plausible deniability. You’re welcome. If I overlooked you, please forgive me. A lot happened on that ride.

Happily, all the falling off that was going to happen for the whole run, happened early on Day One. Tzatziki fell off. Not sure why. I came across him and his mate on the side of the road between Kangaroo Valley and Nowra. Gravity may have had a part to play. It can be demanding in that part of the world. He was unhurt and the bike was undamaged. Tzatziki wanted to spend the next hour or so explaining to me what he thought had happened. I did not want any explanations. In this scenario I need to know two things. One: Are you hurt? Two: Is your bike rideable? If you say no followed by yes, then get on the thing and ride on. We can discuss your failings over beer that evening. Tzatziki quickly saw the wisdom in this. He rode on.

Steelshanks and his Shovelhead Harley were simply inspirational. He pedalled that wretched iron harder than Milwaukee ever imagined it needed to be pedaled. And it was trouble-free. Kudos to him. I had done on my Harley what he was now doing on his Harley many years ago. I followed him along the Bonang for a bit on the GS. He was working. I was not.

Bumblebee chased me on his bumblebee-coloured R1 from Bombala to Delegate. This was two days before all the shit inside his fairing fell apart and had to be repaired with prayers and cable-ties. I actually first started chasing him on those magical high-country bends as we left Bombala. I did so well I managed to get past him early in the piece and then it was like someone fired a starter’s gun. Off we went, because it was bloody well on. Let no-one ever doubt just how capable a GS is when honour is at stake, and when the road surface can be…um, surprising at pace.

Hagrid came astride a matte black Indian Battlestar. Which he threw at the horizon with venom and vigour. I was grateful he was not on a GS. I would have died keeping up.

 

Team Aprilia, half of which was wearing a Lesser Marquez helmet which miraculously remained unburned, were once again a joy and thrill to chase. One of the team allegedly shoots missiles at our nation’s enemies for a living. The one time I passed him, somewhere the other side of Omeo, I thought he might have been having a stroke. I normally can’t get near him. He later told me he was “not feeling it”. In my defence, I was planning to stop and assist him if he was having a stroke.

The Longest Lunch Of All Time was had at the Delegate pub. But it was also great lunch, and the two ladies tried their hardest. They knew we were coming, but belting out 40-plus feeds would have challenged any pub. They did great, and big props to the Rampagers, all of whom were well-mannered and patient.

All of us were appalled at the heinous vandalism some vile creature had perpetrated upon the warning sign just as you start the Bonang. We were all saddened some criminal, or criminals (it could well have been the work of some gang) would sully the unapproachable beauty of our road signs. Shame. People are animals.

Fantaman on his Fanta-coloured Ninja, and I rode the Bonang like ancient god-kings with massively-loaded testicles. We found that place that lives in our minds and souls. We sang our Death Songs. Please understand Fantaman is waaaaay-to-hell faster than me on a bike. Having him sit behind me was hugely intimidating. Surely, he was judging me? I’d be judging him if I was behind him. But he would not pass. He just sat there. Judging. I hated him and I loved him, and I thought that if I had a daughter, I would marry her off to his son, and our alliance would be cemented. And we rode and we were sexy, and the GS just hummed and banked and fanged, and when we got to Omeo, I apologised to him for holding him up. I am polite in that way. “No,” he smiled. “That was a good pace.” See? He was judging.

The Swiss Raandy. You had to have been there. Filthy insane animal Swiss Raandy. I was initially going to end him for riding in a manner that brought glory to him and instilled awe in all of us. I have never seen an MT-10SP ridden with such seemingly careless abandon. Sideways into corners. Sideways out of them. On the gas all the time. He spoke little English and looked like an IT guy with glasses. Until he got drunk and started yelling about Peco Bagnaia. Then he was beast-feral. I did not understand him at first, so ending him was a viable option. And it would have to be at a servo or in a hotel. Because I couldn’t get near him on the road. No-one could. But I understood him finally atop Mt Hotham. It was revealed to me he was the Swiss Supermotard Champion. We became fast friends. Alcohol was involved. Respect, Raandy.

Struth came on a V-MAX. If you’ve met Struth, you will understand how he is one of greatest human beings on this earth. If you have not met him, then you must. Make it a life-decision. We love him so much, Dave actually carried petrol for him because the V-MAX needs twice as much as any other bike.

 

I fell a bit in love with American Dave. He was my kind of crazy. American Dave is a man of means. He came on the Rampage on the spur of the moment. All the way from America. Hired himself a GS with a tracking device, then spent the entire weekend telling the hire company to go fuck itself each time it SMSed him a complaint about “exceeding the speed limit” on its hire bike. “I keep telling these assholes I have no idea where I am or where I’m going and everyone is riding fast and I have to keep up. If they don’t leave me alone I’m just gonna buy the damn bike and set it on fire in front of their shop. And you told me I have diplomatic immunity, right?”

Room Five. We named them this because they stayed in Room Five in Harrietville. They always stay in Room Five. They hang out their war banners, stock their dwelling with savage alcohols, and offer hospitality to their fellows. I think they would only leave if a new Khan had to be elected back in Karakoram. They are known to us and are recidivist offenders. To actually name them would be to open these outstanding, selfless, and caring individuals to all sorts of uncalled-for enquiries from hostile quarters. But no happier or stauncher bastards exist in our listener-base.

A deep bow of respect to Paddy the Bar Manager at the Harrietville Hotel. We could ask for no finer agent of hospitality. Not only did he and his staff love us hard all the time, but when the band Tug had made an arrangement with let us down, Paddy came through. We’d planned and paid to use the band’s sound-system and mixer to record our show. The band took its good sound-system when it departed and left us with a box Tugs described as “Wretched shit”. It looked like we would not be recording anything, and Robbie Phillis’s incredible tiger snake story would be lost forever. Paddy somehow went out and came back with a pro-level mixer and we proceeded. Bravo.

 

Honestly, there are many more tales to tell. We did a lot of miles and lots of great and good things happened. Forty-plus bikes is a fine number of bikes to inflict upon a place, or a road, or even a servo. It’s a force of nature. And when you understand the happiest people on earth were the travelling horse-tribes of the Asian steppe and the North American plains, you can get an idea of just how crucial to your overall well-being what we do is.

As a rider, you are constantly challenged on the road. In this instance, forty-plus riders were constantly challenged. After four days on the road, strangers are no longer strangers. You start to recognise their helmets and their bikes. Some have become friends, some will remain acquaintances – but if more time and more miles pass, then they too may become friends.

 

 

 

 

 

Because we have not only smashed out the miles together, we have also broken bread together, bought each other drinks, debated the way of the world, and bragged about our prowess or lack thereof. Hell, we boogalooed even if we just planned to waltz. We were a damn ancient horse-tribe for four days.

It is different to solo riding or riding in smaller groups. You are forced to look to yourself as much as you must look to your companions – and there are a lot of them. The happiness and success of the whole depends on the actions of the individual.

 

Hunter S Thompson understood this, when he penned that motorcyclists “Walk tall, laugh at what’s funny, and shit on the chests of the weird”. And we so do. Because we know things non-riders do not and never will.

 

We probably should do this again, yes?

 

THE BIKES

Borrie – BMW GS 1300 Pure

I’ve already told you it’s the best bike in the world. I’ve also told you why. There’s really nothing more I need to tell you. I will point out it’s tall. If you’re a dwarf, go and buy an RS instead. Normal-sized people will be fine. Even shortish people will have no issue. And, and this is a big thing for me, the GS no longer the utility-designed geek-girl at the school dance. Its recent re-design and re-style has made it very pretty in a mean-looking atavistic kinda way. Comfort, cornering, braking, suspension, and sheer ability to bang, the GS has it all.

 

Freido – BMW R1300 RS

I loved this one. I first think I was not going to love him. I first think I maybe die because it is molto big and molto fast and I am small and not so fast. But I get on to make the ride and everything is…how you say? Perfecto! Alorra, I say. This one is so easy to ride for me. And very good-looking. Maria she make the eyes at me when I sit on him.

 

Si, he is a big bike. But is no problem, even when I make the parking and go to drink beer. Boris, he look at me to see if I can use my legs to push it, and I see him look and I say to myself: “He will laugh if I cannot do this, so I must do it.”

 

And there is no problem. Also, there is no problem when I make the fast speed. Tug say to me I maybe die on this one they calling “Bongbang Road”. Many corners are here. And I must ride everyone of him. And not fall off. There were more corners on this one than I ever ride in my life and I ride every one! And I even pass some people! I cannot believe this!

 

This RS, he is incredible! I love him. You must try, yes?

 

Tug – BMW R 1300 RT

The new R1300RT is not the greatest tourer in the land. That is not it’s fault. Sit tight and I’ll tell you why.

 

It’s not because of the new incarnation of BMW’s iconic boxer twin, for that is one of the best engines ever put in a touring bike. Torque for days, and enough power to have you chasing the fast guys on bikes that can’t carry luggage, with ease. Assuming you have the stomach for it.

 

It’s also nothing to do with the new braking technology and wizz-bang traction control gizmos. They’re all stunning in their complexity and operation. Top notch stuff.

 

Luggage capacity? You can bet your life that isn’t a drawback, with a topbox you can sleep in and panniers that can adjust from thick to thin, like sliced bread.

 

Must be the chassis, then? No, it’s perfect. The electronically-adjusted suspension works just fine, thank you, as does that special front-end BMW has worked tirelessly on for years. It inspires confidence better than a set of Öhlins WSBK forks. you can launch the RT into corners at speeds it has no right to contemplate, safe in the knowledge the front-end has the prowess to handle anything our shitty Australian roads can throw at it. But I’m sure Borrie will rave on suitably about that in his tale about the GS, so I won’t double up on it any further, as they share the same system.

Maybe the computer stuff is the issue? I must admit, I’m not a massive fan of BMW’s proprietary screens and menus for accessing various function on their bikes, but that’s a me thing more than a them thing. Interfaces are designed to work with the human brain in a certain way, and I’m quite sure my brain does not work like that of many other people, so the BMW system doesn’t quite sing the song of my people. And that’s OK, as I know most BMW owners find their systems to work for them quite intuitively, so I’ll not criticize BMW for my own mental inadequacies. I’m a simple guy and I like things to work simply. Anything a little complex will torment me, as I don’t like learning to operate new systems, so instead I find one setting for everything that I’m happy with and then never touch anything again. It’s how I roll.

 

So why then, is it not the best tourer in the land?

 

Because that land is Australia, where our First World Governments provide Third World roads. If I were anywhere in Europe, or some other place where roads are maintained with some amount of respect for the people who use them, I’d be telling you this is the greatest tourer ever built. Even better than the K series BMWs. Even better than the Goldwing (although I’ve not ridden the new one yet). But because of our roads, It’s the GS that gets the nod over the RT. BMW spoiled me earlier in the year with a R1300GS Adventure to spend a few thousand kms on, and with its extra suspension travel, it copes with our horrible roads with more aplomb and comfort than the RT.

 

It also comes close to the RT in most other requirements for effective touring, so for Aussie conditions, the GS wins over the RT, just barely, in the “which is the better tourer” game. It’s why so many people buy a GS with no intention of ever hitting any dirt at all. They’re just brilliant on our tarmac too.

 

So where does the RT fit? If you generally ride where the roads are well maintained, don’t want a tall adventure bike, and that wonderful luggage on the RT suits your needs, then your heart will sing for the RT. There’s still plenty of room out there for the second-best tourer in the world, too.